Sunday morning is its own ritual. I love to rise with the sun(while my wife sleeps) and the morning smells fresh as newly baked bread. A hot cup of tea, baguette, butter and jam. The New York Times or AFAR magazine on the dining room table to browse. Strains of Beethoven, Copland or perhaps Judy Collins echo softly off the walls, depending on the season and my mood. Sun streaks through the windows. I am enveloped by objects, art and photographs amassed over time from around the world. In that moment I can imagine myself anywhere: Avignon, Antananarivo, or Cape Town. I dream and read. The world is never better than this.